A Midsummer Night's Pipedream
by ADozenWerds
Summary: A wedding, a love rectangle (emphasis on "tangle"), some fay, a play, and a—Wait, what do you mean it's supposed to JUST be "A Midsummer Night's Dream"? No, no, I'm pretty sure there's a faucet pipe somewhere in there too! Based loosely on the Shakespearean play. Emphasis on "loosely". [America x Russia] [Austria x Hungary] [England/Britain x France] (Other ships not set yet.)
1. Act I: Scene I

**A/N: I'M BACK! Well, not quite. Usually, I write humor without any set ships, but for some reason I seem to be having a weird urge to write with a more definitive plotline that's giving me an unusually hard-to-work-past Writer's Block with my other fics. And maybe a teensy-tiny bit of ship-y stuff, even though I suck at writing romantic stuff. *sweatdrops***

 **My solution? Well, I read some Shakespeare ( _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ ), stared at it for a bit after I finished, and just kinda went "Hmm, kinda romantic, but not overly-romantic-stuff-that's-way-out-of-my-league? Yeah, I can handle this as a basis for a Hetalia fanfic! Probably."**

 **So . . . yeah. ^J^ This fic will differ some from the Shakespearean play, but the main plot points should be similar for the most part. Each chapter will be based off a scene in the play and hopefully cover the main plot points of that scene, but they may also have a lot of other random stuff *cough* _I'm-referring-to-CRACK_ *cough* tossed in as well. So don't worry, you don't have to have read A Midsummer Night's Dream to enjoy this fic. (And I do hope you enjoy it!) There will be more notes at the bottom, but for now, let's just get to the story!**

 **Summary: A wedding, a love rectangle (emphasis on "tangle"), some fay, a play, and a—Wait, what do you mean it's supposed to JUST be "A Midsummer Night's Dream"? No, no, I'm pretty sure there's a faucet pipe somewhere in there too! Based loosely on the Shakespearean play. Emphasis on "loosely". [America x Russia] [Austria x Hungary] [England/Britain x France] (Other ships not set yet.)**

 **Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor _A Midsummer Nig_ _ht's Dream_.**

* * *

 **Act I: Scene I**

* * *

 _1.1_

 _Hungary is planning her second wedding with Austria while Belarus confronts Russia yet again on why he still refuses to marry her. A certain awesome exemplar of awesomeness sides with Belarus, demanding that The Bro Code be obeyed in this situation while Germany is on the receiving end of a phone call relating to the state of local wildlife. All this goes down at the World Meeting, because, well, do the nations ever talk about this kind of stuff anywhere else? Oh, and throughout all this, America is on an elevator ride with his Boss. Literally. It's not a euphemism for anything, promise._

* * *

America's Boss was currently in a very stressful place. For one, he had spent the past week surviving almost solely off of coffee—not his healthiest choice, but drowning in coffee was better than drowning in paperwork—preparing for the meeting he was currently on the way to. And for another, he was already running late to said meeting dealing with the other nations because he had to first deal with his own. "For the last time, _you can't marry Russia_! And we're going to be late. Pick up your pace, won't you?"

"Aw, c'mon, Boss!" America insisted, looping an arm around the tense man as they turned the corner and speed walked through the doors of the meeting building. "You don't really mean that, dude! Austria and Hungary are getting remarried and their Bosses are cool with it—I don't see what the problem is with having a wedding, too! I mean, gay marriage was recently legalized in all the states, right? It'll be just like theirs but, y'know, more awesome. No problems with that!"

"You want to hear the problems? Fine," his Boss said as they strode right into the elevator. He pressed their floor level and waited for the doors to close. Then he turned back to the persistent nation and counted off his list of flaws in America's plan. "One: he's Russia."

"As in we're totally _becoming_ one, bro."

"No, you're not! Why? Two, for example: as in, letting the two of you wed would probably lead to the rest of the world fortifying themselves for fear that you and Russia will try to take it over together."

"Nah, Prussia, Denmark and I already tried to do that with our combined awesomeness. But then again, that metal pipe could totally come in handy . . ."

"Three: I repeat, he's _Russia_."

"Exactly! We're only two point five miles apart, seems reasonable enough."

"Four—Wait, seriously?"

"Well, yeah," America grinned, pulling out a map and pointing at the corner where a shrunken map of Alaska was displayed next to Hawaii. "The Diomede Islands, way over here—Big Diomede and Little Diomede, dude!"

"Which one's ours?"

". . . The little one," America sighed, crumpling the map and shoving it back into his pocket. "But it makes up for it in awesomeness!"

"Dammit. Anyway, as I was saying, fourth: _Belarus_."

America opened his mouth to form a retort . . . and then immediately closed it, thoughtfully agreeing, "Yeah, that one sounds like it _could be_ a problem."

"' _Could be_ '?" his Boss scoffed as the elevator came to a stop with a slight bump at their floor. "She's probably organizing a wedding for him as we speak."

The doors slid open.

"I cannot wait for you to see my dress tomorrow, Big Brother," Belarus's voice drifted in as she passed near the elevator. "A double wedding—exciting, isn't it?"

Or, y'know, she already had it all planned out and it was set for tomorrow. No big deal, right?

America's Boss watched the other nations filter out the meeting room with a sort of faint shrug, just as shocked as the nation standing next to him but trying to remain professional.

So, settling for using his binder to prop closed his gawking nation's wide-open mouth, he stated flatly, "I told you we'd be late to the meeting."

* * *

Russia could handle Belarus on a regular day. Kind of. A bit less than adequately.

That is, if the definition of "adequately" was successfully keeping her from leaving scratch marks on his door and stuffing his mailbox full of blackmail, love letters, concise essays on the subject of their union that she had written herself, and, once, a lock of her hair, to name a few. And if the equivalent to his usage of "a bit less than" was "not at all".

But with Austria and Hungary's remarriage on the horizon, his sister seemed to be upping her game to the point where if her previous level of activity were to be compared to a consumer with their face pressed up against a window, her renewed vigor would have to be compared to said consumer uprooting a streetlight, smashing it through the window, and proceeding to ransack the store—with the help of the Nordic Five in both bringing some badass Viking cosplay, complete with ships and weaponry . . . and driving said ships and weaponry right through the wall of the building and knocking over everything in the grocery aisle in the process—to come anywhere remotely close to her efforts now. So, to summarize:

Russia finally discovered what the Baltics felt while living in his house. That is, if what the Baltics felt had been multiplied a hundredfold and then added to infinity.

Where she used to leave scratch marks on his door, the sounds of her tearing it off its hinges, carefully unscrewing it from its place, or simply kicking it down became so common that Russia went to temporarily—or maybe permanently, considering how Belarus had recently started loosening the frames of his windows so that "the glass will no longer separate us and delay our inevitable union, Big Brother"—room with Estonia. The Baltic nation had appeared to be somewhat reluctant and wary of him at first, and had been quick to make him promise not to break off any of his faucet pipes. Silly Estonia, Russia brought his own!

Where she used to write him concise essays, she now regularly delivered alphabetized encyclopedic volumes depicting all the positive aspects of their approaching unity, along with a new wave of the usual blackmail and love letters, this time adding in multiple wedding-related magazines. The mailman had apparently given up on attempting to squeeze shut Russia's mailbox and started simply tossing his mail in the grass around it.

Russia sighed to himself as he flipped through his stack of paperwork. He'd arrived at the World Meeting early, so he thought he might as well get something done. But even his paperwork didn't go untouched by his sister; where she used to offer getting a marriage license for him to sign, she now snuck at least seventeen in each of his piles—seventeen, because that was the same number of letters in—

". . . marry me, Big Brother?" Belarus's voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts. He looked up in surprise to see his sister standing in front of him, casually polishing her knife with the hem of her skirt as she watched him expectantly. Apparently, she'd been speaking the whole time.

Russia responded with a very intelligent "W-what was that again?"

"'Austria and Hungary' . . . 'wedding' . . . 'whatever reason could there be for you _not_ to marry me, Big Brother'?" England supplied, dryly reading off his notepad. What? It was a World Meeting—he could take notes of whatever the bloody hell he wanted! And although he was usually terrified of Russia on a daily basis, he didn't find the nation quite as intimidating when put in a room with Belarus.

The door suddenly flew open in response, literally scaring the cats off of Greece, who called after them for a bit before settling on facepalming . . . and then promptly falling asleep in that position.

"Did someone call for Big Brother France?"

"I'm not looking for some bloody wanker to pick a fight with right now, you blasted frog!"

"Well, of course not!" the newly-arrived France nodded in agreement, a devious grin taking over his face. "What you obviously need is for someone to—"

And with that, England and France descended into another one of their ceremonial arguments, with Japan discreetly filming it from the side and Hungary watching with a handkerchief—How long had she had a _handkerchief_?—to her nose in an attempt to stem the enormous nosebleed that had erupted from it at the sight.

"Belarus does have a point," said Austria, discreetly passing Hungary a box of tissues under the table. "She's known Russia for much longer—"

" _Because she's my sister_!"

"—and voiced her intentions with him much earlier on, which, as the saying goes, 'gives her dibs'."

"That's it," Romano stood up, banging a fist down on the table. He reached out to point his other hand at Austria accusingly. "Where the crapola did the piano bastard learn the word 'dibs'?"

" _That's_ the only thing that you find wrong about this situation, comrade?"

"For the last time, I'm nobody's damn frie— _Chigi, it's Russia_! Don't just stand there, you tomato bastard, _do something_!"

"Well, if you say so," Spain smiled cheerily, oblivious to his former charge's terror. Turning to Russia, he happily went on, "So, for the wedding between you and Belarus, I passed a great place for bouquets on my way here just this morning! It's not too far off and it's prices are so-so, but it has great quality flowers, si? Oh here, let me draw you a ma—"

"I didn't ask you to be a damn cartographer, you bastard! And quit being his damn wedding planner. Belarus already hired someone else for that!"

" _We're not getting married_!" Russia insisted. "Little Sister, I love you, but I assure you that it is in a purely platonic way. There is absolutely no circumstance in which I would ever—"

And suddenly, his sister tackled him to the floor in a fit of fury, perfectly content to diplomatically beat him into submission. Okay, not really.

. . . But the window did suddenly shatter, making the nations ducking under the meeting table as glass sprayed into the room.

"Not so fast, kesesese!" an awesomely awesome voice interrupted.

Germany poked his head out from under the table to shout at the newcomer. "Bruder, I thought I locked you in the closet and handcuffed you to your broomstick to keep you from coming here!"

Prussia paused to consider this with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Oh ja, that happened, didn't it?"

"I told you he was a fan of BDSM," Italy whispered to England and France a bit louder than intended.

The nations sweatdropped in unison.

"But see, there is one awesome little detail that you somehow— _somehow_ —managed to overlook," Prussia continued with a grin, apparently not having noticed Italy's comment.

Germany facepalmed, guessing wearily, "That you're awesome?"

" _That I'm awesome_ ," the very-much-awesome Prussia finished awesomely, as if he hadn't heard his brother's prediction, "which also happens to be why I brought this."

He proudly held out a thick book for the other nations to see.

France, Denmark, and Spain blinked twice. "Whoa, mon ami/man/mi amigo, is that . . .?"

"Ja, it's _The Bro Code_ , alright," Prussia confirmed, already flipping through the pages. "And according to Article 62, 'In the event that two Bros lock onto the same target, the Bro who calls dibs first has dibs.' It gets more complicated if dibs were called at the same time, but since Belarus called dibs way early on, well . . . dibs go to her."

"But neither of us are 'Bros'," Russia pointed out.

"A negative times a negative equals a positive," Denmark piped up.

"So Russia x Belarus is a plus!" Hungary chirped, sounding way too delighted for her own good. She nudged her fiancé. "Austria, perhaps we should _add_ them to our wedding?"

"As guests?" Russia asked hopefully.

"As the second couple in a double wedding," said Hungary.

Hope shriveled up and fell over with the noise that sounded suspiciously similar to that of a cat hacking up a hairball. In other words, things weren't looking pretty.

"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Belarus nodded in agreement. "It's in Athens, isn't it?"

"Can I get a say in any of this?" Russia wondered as his sister began discussing the details with Hungary.

"No, mon ami," France sighed, sidling up to Russia and slinging an arm around his shoulder. Russia startled at the sudden invasion of his personal space. "I'm pretty sure your only option out of this is asexuality."

"A sexuality?" Russia repeated. "What sexuality?"

"No, no, no, I mean _asexuality_ ," said France. He paused to think. "But then again, she could still follow you around even if that were the case . . ."

". . . France?"

"Oui?"

"I would much appreciate it if you stopped groping me just now, da?"

"Merde, I was hoping you wouldn't notice."

As soon as France pulled away, Spain jumped back into the conversation. "France is on the right track though, si? Since Belarus hasn't relinquished dibs, well . . ."

"You either marry her or don't romantically associate yourself with anyone else at all," Hungary and Austria broke off from their respective conversations to finish in unison with varying levels of enthusiasm.

"Yeah, how did you know?" Spain asked.

"Do you really think Prussia would break into our house and _not_ educate us about _The Bro Code_?" Austria sniffed.

"But do these 'dibs' not have expiration dates?" asked Russia, turning back to the Bad Touch Trio.

"Nope, not in this awesome book," Prussia shook his awesome head, ignoring the rant West was giving him as he tapped the cover of the book and then his forehead to emphasize, "and the awesome me has got it all memorized from front to back."

". . . else am I supposed to do to keep you locked in?" Germany continued, seemingly oblivious to his bruder's lack of attention, "And don't tell me that you broke the ceiling again pulling your crazy esca—"

"Well maybe I should have a look myself, da?" suggested Russia, reaching out for the book.

"Nein! No way is someone as awesome as me letting you look through _The Bro Code_! You even said it yourself that you're not a Bro—which is totally lame, even by your standards, unless you're thinking about converting, in which case that's slightly awesomer since I'm free tomorrow so we can plan the awesome ritual—"

"What do you mean, you're 'free tomorrow'?" Hungary interrupted, seemingly offended as she once again broke off her wedding planning with Belarus. Belarus frowned. And they'd been right in the middle of discussing how the cake was going to work, too . . . "Tomorrow's the day of our wedding!"

Prussia blinked, his expression the epitome of " _I'm so screwed_ ". "Ja, but, well . . ."

Then he abruptly started running in the opposite direction, causing Hungary to whip out a frying pan from—where _did_ it come from?—to chase him in circles around the meeting table, shouting, "Get back here, you!" as she brandished it threateningly, the other nations growing increasingly alarmed at the sight of her expanding dark aura. And yes, really.

"And that is why you totally shouldn't, like, get on the bride's bad side or anything," Poland concluded, nodding sagely.

"Yeah, that sounds about right," Lithuania agreed absentmindedly, staring at where Belarus had resumed sifting through Hungary's cake pictures on her own.

Poland paused to stare at his companion curiously. "You totally aren't listening, are you?"

Oblivious to this exchange in the background, Russia affirmed, "I'm still not a 'Bro'."

"Not _yet_ ," France corrected, "but think of all the benefits, oui? For one, we'll be sure to throw you a—what' the word?—an _awesome_ bachelor party for your wedding with Bela—"

"I'm not marrying my sister, either!"

Before anyone could respond, a phone rang, interrupting their conversation. Germany picked it up. "Ja?"

The nations went quiet as he listened to what they were saying on the other end.

". . . So what you're saying is that there's a gaping hole through the roof?"

He turned to look pointedly at Prussia, who Hungary had managed to pin to the floor and, at the sound of Germany's ringtone, had paused with her frying pan in midair, poised to smack him upside the head.

"Nein, it isn't a disruption of the local ecosystem. The bird was already there," Germany spoke into the phone. "Ja, he's a pet. 'Who builds a nest for their pet bird', you ask? What do I sound like to you, a psychologist? Actually, I suppose I am pretty good in that area . . ."

There was another pause as he continued to listen. Then his eyes widened.

"Handcuffs? Ja, they're mine, but—"

The talking on the other end grew slightly louder, but still came out muffled due to how Germany had pressed the phone closely to his ear.

"N-no, it's not what you—"

The person on the other end apparently hung up, leaving Germany to bash his head against the table in exasperation. When he looked up again, he snapped at the gawking nations, "All of you, out! The meeting is temporarily adjourned. Go take a lunch break or something."

They reluctantly turned to leave. Prussia stepped forward to go as well, but Germany cut in before he could go, "Not you, Bruder. We're going to have a talk about thi—Hey, what are you doing with that book?"

Prussia finished shoving a pair of headphones onto _The Bro Code_ and said, "It's too awesome to have to suffer through this as well."

Meanwhile, Belarus grinned forebodingly as she brushed past Russia. "I cannot wait for you to see my dress tomorrow, Big Brother. A double wedding—exciting, isn't it?"

* * *

During the "lunch break", while Germany was trying to explain to government officials that yes, he sometimes locked up his bruder inside the house to keep him from coming to meetings and yes, it was a perfectly safe and reasonable course of action that his bruder didn't have any problems with it at all and Prussia was trying to convince them that no, he didn't have Stockholm Syndrome, yes, it was him that wrecked the ceiling and was "responsible" for the pet chick—"So, what you're saying is that the bird—" "Gilbird." "—Er, the _Gilbird_ —" "Nein, it's _just_ Gilbird! C'mon, let's start this whole thing over again until you get it right."—and "possibly traumatized" the neighbor's cat, no, he wasn't the Hulk in disguise, he was just too awesome to be repressed, and that yes, that was a real affliction, and an awesome one at that, America and Russia sat at a table far away from where Hungary and Belarus were still engrossed in their wedding plans.

"So, Belarus, huh?" America finally broke the silence between them halfway through his second bag of burgers. "I totally thought I heard something about you guys getting married."

"I'm still not marrying my sister."

"But she has a dress," America pointed out, fishing through the bag for his next burger.

"She always has a dress," Russia countered.

"A _wedding_ dress," America clarified with a scoff. "For the wedding. Tomorrow."

"That doesn't mean we're getting married!"

"Oh yeah? They already reprinted the invitations. Check it!" America held out a slip of paper for Russia to look at. When Russia didn't speak immediately, America read it aloud himself. "'You are hereby cordially invited to the reunion of Austria and Hungary and the new union of Belarus and Russia.' America, whenever is this most wondrous date set for, you ask? Oh look, there it is— _tomorrow_."

Russia only frowned at the paper. "Hey, why didn't I receive an invitation?"

" _Because you're the groom_!" America sighed in frustration, balling up the paper and shoving it into one of his empty fast food bags.

"You've been doing that quite a lot today," his Boss commented as he walked past with his own meal. "Don't want to make a habit out of it."

"Just shut up and let me sulk," America called back, though his Boss was already out of earshot. He shoved a consolation burger into his mouth, munching thoughtfully on it as he turned back to Russia. "If you ask me, dude, this situation is complete— _MMFRAMPHLEANFU_ —isn't it? Not to mention how you totally got to— _EMPHINFMM_ —too, y'know? And it totally sucks, man, because you don't even seem to give a— _FMPHINTHKAROWT_ —about what's going on, so she's totally just going to walk up there, go 'Yeah, dude, let's totally become husband and wife and brother and sister because everyone knows that that can totally happen simultaneously without things seeming totally out of wack because of— _LARPHALMPHIN_ —and all that wacky stuff' and— _HRAOWMPHUL_ —happens and then you're totally married! And don't even get me started on how awkward it would be for the two of you to—"

"Either you eat or you talk," Russia finally interrupted. He gingerly used a napkin to brush off the crumbs America had sprayed all over the table with a rather disgruntled expression on his face. "If you do both, I'm going to introduce you to a certain magic metal friend of mine."

"Fine," America huffed, quickly scarfing down the rest of his burger. "All I'm trying to say is that we should probably figure a way out of this wedding, dude."

"Well, what would you suggest?"

"Hey, I'm not the one escaping from marrying my sibling!"

"Ah, I see. If that's so, then I do have one plan that might wor—"

"But since you _asked so nicely_ ," America cut him off obliviously, "I do have _one_ plan that might work. It's pretty straightforward, though."

"Let's just get it over with," Russia sighed, hoping that this one didn't involve robots or superheroes or radioactive spiders or nuclear—

"We should run away."

Oh. " _What_?"

"I said that we should totally run away, dude," America repeated. Russia opened his mouth to question his sanity, but America continued, "I mean, only for the day of the wedding, of course. And we'll have to check out of the hotel so that they don't find us, because if they can't find you, then you can't get married. It's easy! Now, what was your plan?"

"To barricade myself in the hotel and hope that my Little Sister doesn't get in and drag me out somehow."

". . . Yeah, running away sounds way easier."

"Are you really going to go through with this, Mr. America?"

The two nations startled at the sound of a third voice joining their group, swiveling around to see Lithuania looking back at them expectantly. Poland stood next to him, simply looking impatient.

"Lithuania, Poland!" America laughed awkwardly. "How long have you two been there?"

"Like, ever since you totally said 'I totally thought I heard something about you guys getting married.'" Poland answered. He pointedly elbowed Lithuania. "So, since you totally said 'totally', which is, like, totally fabulous and all, I thought we should come check it out. But then I grew kind of bored and said we should, like, leave, but Liet was all 'Wait, I totally want to hear what happens next' and so we, like, kind of wound up staying. Are you seriously, like, running away from the wedding?"

"Da."

"But we're, like, in _Greece_."

"I've got a lot of government and buildings—well, I guess mostly government buildings—based off of his," America offered. At the others' unimpressed looks, he dug into his pocket and extracted the crumpled-up map from earlier, "Plus, I've got this map we can totally use!"

"I think that map's a goner," Poland said observationally as America fruitlessly tried to flatten the map on the table.

"And you probably wouldn't be able to use it even if it wasn't," Russia added.

" _Hey, what's that supposed to mean_?"

"That you totally can't read maps," Poland deadpanned.

"But what I don't get is why you would want to run away from Belarus," said Lithuania as America desperately tried to prove to Poland that he could, indeed, read maps—"See? That's Athens, Greece, right there!" "That's 'Athens, GA' for one of your states for something. It's totally not Greece. Wait, do you, like, know how to spell 'Greece'?" "Sure, I have it in just about all my meals, dude! G-R-E-A-S-E. Here, have a fry, too! No? Y'sure? Okay then bro, but it's your loss!"—in the background. "She's so pretty and wonderful to be around, isn't she?"

Poland broke off his conversation with America to remind Lithuania loudly, "The last time you went on a date, she broke all your fingers!"

"Physical contact is an important part in every healthy relationship!" Lithuania insisted, while Poland continued to deny this—"Not if it causes you not to be able to hold any writing utensils for, like, the next month! I totally had to take notes for you at the next four World Meetings after that disaster!"—vehemently in the background. Looking back at Russia, he continued, "The thing is, Mr. Russia, I would be very happy if Belarus treats me the way she does with you. Oh, how I wish that were so."

"As do I, comrade," Russia agreed solemnly.

"Dude, don't wish that kind of violence on others!" America protested. "It's freaking messed up!"

"Don't worry, it would be an upgrade from what she does to him now," Poland assured him . . . though it wasn't really much assurance.

Someone else's voice called out through the room before America could reply to this statement.

"The authorities have finally relented, everyone," Germany declared, snapping his phone shut and pocketing it. "The World Meeting will officially reconvene in five minutes. Oh, and Bruder, you're paying for the ceiling."

Prussia snorted into his drink, which looked suspiciously like beer. "Not until those lame authorities acknowledge that I escaped not because I possess 'remarkably thin, birdlike wrists' but because I'm just too _awesome_ for handc— _Okay, okay, I'll pay_! You can put down the frying pan, alright? No? Oh scheiße, I should probably run now."

Before the four of them headed back to the meeting room, America turned pleadingly to Poland and Lithuania. "Just promise me you won't tell anyone else about this, okay guys?"

"Don't worry, I won't," Poland promised.

Relieved, America smiled as he left, "Thanks, dudes. I knew I could count on you to keep a secret!"

After the other nations had filtered into the room, Poland glanced at Lithuania, still standing in the doorway.

". . . You're planning on telling her, aren't you?"

* * *

 **Notes on this Chapter:**

 **. . . And the Hungary ran after the Prussia with a . . . does a frying pan count as a cooking utensil? Yes? No?**

 **I chose to do a fic with a bunch of ships that I'm not too used to shipping . . . wonder how this'll turn out. Hopefully, it's still passable. It's a longer chapter than I'm used to writing, but I guess that's what happens when you have more of a plot in mind. ^J^**

 **Oh, and speaking of the plot, *cough* _SPOILER ALERT_ *cough* going by the plot of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , Belarus and Lithuania would be endgame in this fic. However, here I've also thrown in Poland—**

 **Poland: *flips hair* "Because I'm, like, totally too fabulous to resist!"**

 **Me: "Keep telling yourself tha—Well, actually, that's pretty accurate."**

 **—who's going to serve as a sort of extra conscience to Lithuania (which is semi-ironic considering how it seems like it would be vice versa), so, just to give you a heads-up way ahead of time, I might make a poll on that sometime further down the road.**

 **I really hope I haven't accidentally wrecked anyone's ship with any OOC-ness. *sweatdrops* Well, unless it's the funny kind of OOC that only pops up occasionally, in which case I'll probably feel slightly less guilty. ^J^ But only slightly.**

 **"Pipedream": According to Merriam-Webster, this would refer to "an illusory or fantastic plan, hope, or story". However, it's origins are similar to those of the word "crackfic", so I thought it sounded rather fitting to use as part of the title.**

 **France's mentioning of "asexuality" is supposed to reference *cough* _ANOTHER SPOILER_ *cough* one of the options (the option of a lifetime of chastity) if Hermia refused to marry Demetrius in Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.**

 **And as you could probably guess, Prussia breaking through Germany's roof and the authorities getting involved wasn't part of Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , but it was awesome. Speaking of Prussia, outro, please!**

 **Prussia: *running around World Meeting table* "Nein, can't you tell the awesome me is kind of in the middle of being unawesomely chased right now?"**

 **Hungary: *brandishes frying pan* "'Unawesomely'? Take it back . . . _take it back_!"**

 **Poland: "Stay, like, totally fabulous! . . . Wait, when you said I was 'thrown in', you don't mean that I'm, like, part of the 'other random stuff' you mentioned in the A/N, right? Right?"**

 **Feedback is greatly appreciated. I hope you've enjoyed things so far! Oh, and in case you were wondering, A Midsummer Night's Dream has five acts with two scenes per act for most of the acts (the fifth act only has one scene), so that would probably make this fic around nine chapters long. ^J^**

 **Poland: "You still totally haven't answered my question! Hey, get back here!"**


	2. Act I: Scene II

**A/N: Ta-da! So, Act I: Scene II was finished a lot quicker than I expected, but it turns out that it's a much shorter scene than the previous one since it's mainly introducing another one of the main plotlines in Shakespeare's play.**

 **Speaking of the main plotlines, I should probably mention that there are three of them or so in Shakespeare's _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ , which are vaguely referenced in the summary of this fic. I don't really want to spoil too much, so I'll still be kind of vague when I say that one is the "love rectangle" (which was introduced in the previous chapter), one involves "some fay" ("fay" as in "fairies" and the like, so you may or may not be able to guess who that might involve), and one involves "a play" (the one introduced in the chapter you're about to read). Well, four of them, if you count the wedding as one, too. ^J^**

 **A lot of the chapters, especially toward the beginning, focus mainly on these plotlines individually, though they're all related to each other in some way and still overlap in some chapters.**

 **Warning: The following chapter is mostly dialogue. And contains Romano. And Prussia. ^J^**

 **Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.**

* * *

 **Act I: Scene II**

* * *

 _1.2_

 _Germany is being blackmailed. Prussia is a regular guy. France is a girl. Spain is a ton of bricks. Literally. Well, sort of. Oh, and Romano is floating on a damn cloud of sunshine. Yeah, nothing could possibly go wrong with this setup! The part with France being female, at least. He could totally pull that off. Probably._

* * *

"Remind me why I've got a part in this damn play again, you jerk bastard," Romano scowled as he stared at the fuzzy yellow monstrosity of a costume in front of him.

"Because I asked you nicely so now you're doing it out of the goodness of your heart?" Spain suggested good-naturedly, pulling on his own costume without complaint.

"If this takes up the goodness of my heart, it's going to run out by tomorrow afternoon," Romano grumbled, but took an experimental step inside his costume as well. Yep, it even felt like a fuzzy yellow monstrosity.

"Oh, but that's when the wedding is!"

"Great, then you see my point!"

"Aw, Romano! You know what you need?"

"Don't you damn dare, you—"

"This calls for a cheer-up charm, si? _Fusosososo_!"

"Quit summoning all those flowers, you bastard! You're getting pollen all over the room!"

* * *

Being the responsible, organized and well-rounded nation he was, Germany seemed like the best choice for managing the wedding to make sure everything was running smoothly. So, at Hungary's insistence, he courteously agreed to—Oh, screw it. He was totally blackmailed into running the play that would serve as their wedding entertainment and he wasn't even being paid for it, to his disgruntlement.

"Okay, is everyone here?" he asked, checking his clipboard impatiently. Faint shouts—something about pollen getting down someone's costume, followed by a sneeze, then a shout of "I'm not allergic to pollen, but you'd sneeze too if you got it up your damn nose, you jerk bastard!"—could be heard from the dressing room area. Germany urged himself to remain professional and proceeded to go down the list. "Bruder, are you present?"

"Yeah, and awesome as ever, kesesese!" Prussia affirmed with a cackle. Germany looked up and frowned at him.

"You were supposed to change into your costume. You've been wearing those clothes all day."

"But West, I'm playing a regular guy!"

"You're playing Pyramus, a 'regular guy' who sneaks out of the house to go talk to France and Spain every night."

There was a pause as Prussia considered this, blinking both curiously and awesomely.

". . . How did you know my awesome schedule? Other than the 'regular guy' part, of course. Lame-o!"

" _That's_ why the house is so quiet at night? Mein Gott, I thought you spent your nights _sleeping_ like a normal person! Now get into your costume already so that we can quit wasting time or else I'll stop paying for all your beer!"

"Nein, anything but the beer money!" Prussia exclaimed, immediately scampering off into the dressing rooms faster than if he were being chased by a frying pan.

With his bruder gone to change, Germany continued with a sigh, "France, are you in your costume, at least?"

"But of course!" France exclaimed. "I'm playing a regular guy too, aren't I? The one that Pyramus goes to talk to every night . . . Thisbe, non?"

"Thisbe is female."

"But I have a very hot and alluring stubble growing out! How else am I supposed to attract all the—"

He looked up to see, to his disappointment, that Germany was very much unimpressed. Spain, having joined them after leaving the dressing room covered in what appeared to be pink petals, leaned over to whisper to his fellow member of the Bad Touch Trio, "Unless you want to hear his spiel about 'staying true to the original' and 'appreciating the hard work and blood and sweat and other bodily fluids put into these costumes', mi amigo, I suggest that you just do as he says."

"How would you know if such a spiel exists?" France wondered.

"I play a wall," Spain said simply, gesturing at his brick-patterned costume as if that explained everything.

France glanced between Spain and Germany, who both stared back at him expectantly, before exhaling loudly in defeat. ". . . I think I'll go change clothes as well, mon ami."

Because, y'know, at least France didn't have to spend all his scenes standing still on the stage in a shapeless costume pretending to be an inanimate object. Besides, he could still feel pretty in a dress. Probably.

"Spain, present," Germany noted, checking said nation off his list. "At least you seem to know your part."

"Si," Spain beamed. "All I do is stand there and emulate everything that is happy and wonderful about walls, right señor?"

"All you do is stand there," Germany affirmed.

"And feel happy and wonderful!"

"No."

"And radiate happiness and wonderfulness?"

"Nein, you just stand there."

"But I must be happy and wonderful if I'm a wall!"

"Mein Gott, what is so happy and wonderful about _walls_?"

" _They're walls_!"

"That's why I'm asking!" Germany facepalmed, groaning before he turned back to the clipboard. "Fine, let's continue. Romano, are you in your costume?"

"Yes, and it feels like I'm floating on a damn cloud of sunshine, you bastard," Romano replied, sounding very much discontent with his "damn cloud of sunshine". "Now, do you have my part written down or something, potato bastard? Because I'm not in the mood for any damn memorization."

"You may go without a script as long as you know your cues," Germany assured him as he checked off Romano on the list as well. "All you do is roar, anyway."

"That doesn't sound like it could get boring in the slightest," Romano drawled.

"If it's just roaring, can the awesome me have that part too?" Prussia piped in, having returned from the dressing room with a fake beard glued lopsidedly— _AHEM_ , the fake beard was glued _awesomely_ to his chin. "And I can roar so awesomely that that pansy Austria will call animal control because my awesomeness is just too—"

"You are _not_ getting in trouble again with the animal authorities and that is final."

"Fine, then. I'll roar as gently as Austria throws."

". . . You really like to bash the piano bastard, don't you?" Romano observed.

"Romano's still keeping the part of the lion," Germany stated.

"Dammit."

"Alright, alright. I'm too awesome to play the lion, anyway," Prussia huffed, using his fingers to hold the sides of his falling fake beard in place. "Now, what beard should I play Pyramids in?"

"Pyramus," Germany corrected, unceremoniously ripping the rest of the beard off of his bruder's face, "and the answer to that would be none."

"Aw, you're no fun," Prussia pouted. Suddenly seeming to perk up, he changed the subject, "Now, didn't you say we were having a press dispersal—"

"Dress rehearsal."

"—or something?" he awesomely finished, paying no attention to his bruder's correction.

"Ja," Germany nodded in confirmation. He pulled out a map and handed it over for Prussia to see. "Italy will meet us over there after he's done going looking for props. There's a fancy hotel that has a theatre but doesn't have any productions currently going on, so they agreed to lend us some props to use for our play. However, we'll have to travel to our destination by foot because there is no road that goes through the wo—"

"Wait, are you saying we have to walk in _public_ in these costumes?" Romano demanded, interrupting him furiously. "Oh, no. There is _no_ way I'm walking out there looking like some damn kid's life-sized stuffed animal!"

"What kind of hotel has a _theatre_?" Prussia snorted, apparently having missed both the last part of Germany's statement and Romano's outburst as he flipped the map both ways before refolding it and stowing it away in his pocket. "Lame-o!"

"A fancy hotel," Germany repeated, casting him a clearly-unamused look. "And if you miss the dress rehearsal, I still won't hesitate to cut off your beer money."

"Aw, but _West_!"

It was only after Spain, Romano, and his bruder had left for the location of their dress rehearsal and he was left waiting for France to finish changing—"But it clashes with my stubble! I can't be forced to go out like this, mon ami!" "How does something clash with your _facial hair_?"—that Germany remembered he hadn't finished telling them that the rehearsal was in the woods.

* * *

 **Notes on this Chapter:**

 **Me: "Really, Hungary, what were you thinking putting Germany in charge of the entertainment for your wedding?"**

 **Hungary: *smiles innocently* "He was the only responsible one I had enough blackmail for."**

 **Me: "Who did you have enough blackmail for?"**

 **Hungary: "Everyone."**

 **Me: *sweatdrops* "O-okay then . . ."**

 **"Pyramids" and "press dispersal": As Germany so generously clarified, Prussia means "Pyramus" and "dress dispersal". In Shakespeare's play, though, Prussia's parallel makes a LOT more of these switcheroos with his words, except there's no Germany to translate for him. ^J^**

 **"Cheer-up charm": Spain has a cheer-up charm in Hetalia canon. Seriously. In one webcomic, he radiates flowers and sparkles as he goes " _FUSOSOSO_ " while using it.**

 **Romano: *sneezes out . . . is that glitter?* "That damn pollen . . . . Wait, is this actually pixie dust or something? What kind of crapola is this?"**

 **Spain: "Magic, si?"**

 **Romano: "Ha! Yeah right, tomato bastard."**

 **Me: *grins deviously* "Well, maybe that opinion will change . . ."**

 **Romano: "Did you say something?"**

 **Me: *sweatdrops* "I've said too much."**

 **The next chapter will be the first scene of Act II, which also has a total of two scenes, I think. But it will probably be longer than this one, so it might take longer to write. Hopefully, it'll be worth the wait. ^J^ Feedback is greatly appreciated!**

 **I** **n response to Guest reviewer Layla, I'm glad you like it! And don't worry, you'll be seeing a LOT more Prussia in this fic. *grins deviously* Speaking of Prussia, outro, please!**

 **Prussia: *dusts self off* "Finally! Stay awesome, kesesese!"**

 **Germany: ". . . Would now be a good time to warn him about the woods?"**

 **Me: *grins deviously* "Oh, he'll see for himself soon enough."**

 **Romano: "Quit grinning at us like that, dammit! You're almost as bad as the tomato bastard!"**


	3. Act II: Scene I

**A/N: I'M BACK! Sorry for the wait! *sweatdrops* I started off typing up the chapter smoothly enough, but then things got . . . not so smooth. *cough* _writer's-block_ *cough* So, it's shorter than I had anticipated, but I think it covers the major plot points in order to advance the story along.**

 **Now, I present to you the third main plotline! Yay! *cheers***

 **Disclaimer: I do own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor _A Midsummer Night's Dream_.**

* * *

 _2.1_

 _All Canada wanted to do was the right thing, but_ no-o-o _, he just_ had _to find the briefcase of the one that could see unicorns. Just like how he just_ had _to walk in on a merry band of actors in the woods. Well, as merry as one can be when France has bested them on so many levels. But don't worry, they're plotting their revenge! Okay, so maybe that calls for a_ little _worry . . ._

* * *

When Canada had found England's briefcase left on the floor of the front lobby, his plan had been pretty simple. Step 1: find England. Step 2: return briefcase. Easy, right?

It _should_ have been. The one issue? Canada wasn't exactly . . . well . . . wait, who were we talking about again? Oh, right. _Canadia_ wasn't exactly someone you would call "opaque".

Still, after failing to flag down any of the hotel staff, anxiously walking behind the counter himself to sneak a peek at their guest list himself—not even the security camera saw him search through their database; he wasn't sure whether or not to be disappointed or to start taking professional ninja lessons—and then spending the next hour phoning every nation he found listed there only to have a whopping total of zero of them pick up the phone, he delayed his facepalm to make one last call as to England's whereabouts. The recipient answered it immediately.

"Canadia, dude, what's up?"

"It's _Canada_ ," he sighed, already regretting dialing his brother's number.

"Yeah, sure, whatever, bro," America snorted on the other end of the line. There was a faint crackling noise in the background, but Canada doubted that it had anything to do with their cellular connection. "Anyway, I'm kind of sort of _totally_ in the middle of proving manhood right now, so could you hold that thought for just a sec?"

". . . You're trying and failing miserably to read a map right now, aren't you?"

"Hey, it's harder than it looks!" his brother insisted. "I mean, the forest on here is totally half-assed, dude. There aren't any roads or anything!"

Canada was about to comment about how if anything looked half-assed on any of America's maps, it was Canadia— _Canada, dammit_!—himself. But then he realized what his brother had just revealed and sweatdropped. "W-wait, did you say you're lost in the woods?"

"Da. It's the one on the opposite end of the city as the wed— _MMPHENF_!"

Russia's voice was suddenly muffled, but Canada's panic wasn't dulled in the slightest. "You're trapped in the woods with _Russia_?"

". . . I've said too much. Well, it's been fun talking to you, dude!"

"Wait! Have you seen Eng—"

The call ended and Canada stood there, staring at his phone in shock. Then his belated facepalm caught up to him. "Maple."

Well, time to lace up his hockey shoes. Skates. Screw this metaphor. Point is, it seemed like Canada would be taking a little detour from his quest with England's briefcase to drag his maple-leafing hoser of a brother back to the hotel. And maybe still do a little searching for England in the process.

* * *

Fifteen minutes after entering the woods he'd guessed his brother to be in—because "Nothing having to do with a guess based on the words 'opposite end of the city as the wed— _MMPHENF_!' could possibly go wrong, eh?" "Oh boy . . . who are you?" "I'm the hand that feeds you! Y'know, Canadi—I mean _Canada, Kumamaple_! Oh, I'm sorry for raising my voice there . . ." "Hmm? Did you say something else?"—Canada was beginning to question his decision-making skills. Especially because no one would tell him where he could find a map. So Canada went for the simple solution.

He split his time in the woods between searching for his brother, searching for England, and plotting what sort of horrible revenge he would deal to America as soon as he found him. What? It was a very motivational pastime.

"Oh, when I get my hands on that hoser, I'll dump a _whole_ bottle of syrup on his head! No! I'll set up a _funnel_ above his seat at the next World Meeting and rig it to drip a _single drop_ of maple syrup into his hair every . . . wait, that sounds like Chinese water torture. And a lot of syrup. Oh! What if I use it to glue down Nantucket? But then again, I _could_ just eat the syrup instead of using it for revenge . . . and gluing down Nantucket _does_ sound like it would be kind of awkward . . . and rude . . ."

"Hey, who're you talking to?"

"Ah!" Canada leapt in surprise, reeling around with the intentions of spraying his attacker in the face. " _You're_ not Kumajungle!"

"Kuma-who now? Nein, but I'm awesome, kesesese!" cackled the very awesome Prussia from in front of him. Then he noticed Canada's pantomime of . . . "Wait, are you trying to pepper spray the awesome me?"

Canada looked at his empty hands and immediately retracted them with a sweatdrop. "Oh, you mean that, eh? Yeah, I used to carry around some pepper spray in case anyone accidentally invaded my—"

"Vital regions?" Prussia awesomely supplied.

" _No, my personal space_!" Canada exclaimed emphatically. Recomposing himself, he continued, "But no one did that, so I stopped bringing it along after a while . . . I guess I kind of forgot about that, eh?"

"Ja, ja," Prussia waved dismissively. And awesomely. "But what're you doing in the woods all by yourself?"

"Well, you see, I'm actually trying to find someone."

"Who?"

" _I'm Canada_! You know, the one wh—Sorry, force of habit," Canada cut himself off sheepishly. He glanced down at the briefcase in his hands. "Er, I guess I'm looking for England, since I have to return his briefcase. I don't know where he is, though. But right now I'm focusing more on America, because he doesn't know how to read a map and went and got lost in the woods. Why are you here?"

"A chess proverbial," Prussia nodded sagely. "West just forgot to mention that it's in the middle of nowhere."

" _It's a DRESS REHEARSAL_!" Germany's voice shouted insistently from not too far away.

"Ja, that's what the awesome me said! A _dress reversal_!"

Canada cringed at what sounded distinctly like a loud facepalm from Germany's general direction.

"But anyway, if you're looking for England, he should be right over there having an awesome catfight with France. Actually, Spain should totally have the popcorn done by now. Awesome!" Prussia continued obliviously. He grabbed Canada by the wrist and started dragging him off into the direction he had indicated, awesomely declaring as Canada was tugged past a still-facepalming Germany, "Quick, before we miss the rest of the figh— _Wait, why aren't the two of you fighting_?"

Canada sweatdropped; Prussia had led them into a clearing in the woods where all the stage props were located, with France and England sitting serenely right in the middle of it all. France lowered the hand mirror he'd been holding up to eye level. "Hmm? Why, we have simply matured and—"

"I beat him up. Then the frog called it quits to fix his hair."

". . . Or there is a slight possibility that that was exactly what happened," France admitted with a sigh. "A small one."

Prussia blinked. "So . . . I missed the fight?"

"Oui."

And so Prussia went to sulk in the background next to Romano and Spain, who were putting the popcorn to good use. "Do you have a tissue? Not that the awesome me could use one, since that would be totally lame, but . . ."

Romano simply gave him a blank stare. "Who do you think I am, the piano bastard?"

Meanwhile, Canada anxiously approached England with the briefcase. "Y-you left your briefcase on the floor, so I thought I would return it to you . . . oh! While I'm here, did either of you happen to see America anywhere?"

England furrowed his impressive eyebrows. "Wait, but aren't you . . . ?"

"Canada," France quickly supplied. England sweatdropped.

"Oh. Right," he said awkwardly. "Well, then I suppose we haven't. Sorry about that, lad."

Canada sighed. "Don't worry about it, eh? But thank you for—"

He was interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. At first he looked around for Germany in case the authorities were, well, still on the nation's case, but it was France who picked up. "Oui? Ah, India . . ."

Seeing that France was now busy, Canada turned back to England with the intentions of handing over the briefcase and then voicing his goodbyes immediately afterward, only to see the nation muttering to himself. "Oh, uh . . . are you okay?"

"France," England was saying under his breath. He raised his voice to exclaim, "How does that bloody frog have _India's_ phone number? India never gave it to _me_! Canasta—"

"Canada."

"—walk with me, will you, lad?" England asked, already leading Canada out of the earshot of the others. "There is, of course, only one course of action to wheedle India's phone number out of that frog."

"Ask him nicely?" he wondered, clutching the briefcase and contemplating whether or not he should just shove it over to England and make his escape while the nation was distracted.

"Use fairy magic on that blasted frog so that he'll become obsessively infatuated with some unfortunate creature, and use that against him to make him fork over India's phone number," England proclaimed determinedly. "It's bloody brilliant, it is!"

"Or we could just get France drunk enough to," Canada muttered, not mentioning how England's sort of revenge seemed a lot more intensive than his own.

"Oh, yes, well," England sweatdropped, "I suppose we could do that, too. Would you fetch some wine for that, lad, and meet me back here later, then? The most expensive bottle you can find, since you know the frog can be picky about these things. I'll pay you back for it later, but you better be quick about it!"

"B-but what about your—"

"Now, now, don't be shy, go on!" said England, not noticing Canada's attempts to return his briefcase. He ushered Canada back in the direction that they had come from, calling, "Remember, I'll be waiting for you off over here!"

Canada glanced behind him only to see that England had sat down next to a bush to wait. Should he really be helping the nation get India's phone number by making France even more of a groping hazard and possibly giving him a nasty hangover? But . . . it would be rude to decline after the plans had already been arranged . . .

He sighed and went out to go find a good place for alcohol with the briefcase still in his hands, thinking that he should have just thrown the bag at England when he had the chance.

* * *

"For the last time, she's totally not interested and unless you want your fingers looking all squiggly, you should turn around, like, right now!" Poland insisted, trying fruitlessly to drag Lithuania out of the woods by the hem of his apron—the nation was wearing the one he'd acquired while working at America's house because, he reasoned, it seemed most suited to keeping his clothes clean while he was trekking through the forest in an intimate search party complete with the love of his life. No big deal.

"I'd make a million squiggly lines if it makes her happy," Lithuania sighed dreamily.

"That's . . . not comforting, Liet," Poland informed him. "And it totally _can't_ be healthy and you totally have to ditch her!"

"I heard that," Belarus called back from the front with a huff.

Poland sweatdropped. "Not that I meant anything bad by it, it's just, like, self-preservation and all that stuff, you know?"

"Just help me find Big Brother in these woods and get this over with, will you?" she huffed, picking up her pace. But just a little bit.

"See?" Lithuania smiled happily, pointedly nudging Poland's arm. "She's interested!"

This time, Poland simply settled for facepalming.

* * *

When Canada returned, dutifully holding out a bottle of wine for England to examine, he had not been expecting the nation to leap down from a tree to greet him. Nearly dropping the wine in surprise, he glanced between the tree and the nation, gawking, "Wh-what the . . . I thought you said you would be in the bush!"

"Ah, well, I heard people approaching so I simply scaled this tree and happened to overhear their conversation from above. Also, it's a great place to contact the fairies. You should really try it sometime," England waved dismissively. "But enough of that! So, is that the wine?"

Deciding that it was best not to question the other nation for now, Canada sighed and passed over the bottle, "Yeah, it's a five-hundred-dollar bottle of—"

"Good, we won't need it," England interrupted, nonchalantly flinging it back over his shoulder before he could protest. Canada let out a muffled squeak of horror as it shattered on the ground.

Well. There went five hundred dollars. And some really good wine.

"Anyway, Cana . . . uh . . . _lad_ , it seems like our plans have changed," he continued, holding something out for Canada to see. "See this, lad?"

"It's a . . . flower," Canada sweatdropped, not sure how to respond.

"It's a _magical_ flower that I received from the fairies. Well, after a lot of convincing," said England, not noticing the clearly unconvinced look that crossed Canada's face as the nation debated whether or not he should seek professional help. Didn't Germany say he was pretty good in that area? "To use it, you simply drop some of its nectar on one's eyelids while they are asleep, and when they wake up, they will become infatuated with the first person they see. Now, it appears that France is not the only one who we will be putting under its power."

". . . You want me to rub it on the eyes of multiple people?"

"It seems like we're on the same page, then!" England exclaimed in delight, patting him heartily on the back. "I saw a lad in the woods whose affections appear to have been rejected. It was too dark for me to see his face, but you'll know him by his American clothing. So, I want you to—Hey, I haven't finished! Where are you going?"

"To get this over with so I can sob over the loss of a certain expensive beverage," Canada called back, already walking off with the flower in one hand and England's briefcase still clutched in the other. "Is there anything else I should know about using the . . . er . . . magical flower?"

England thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No, I suppose magical flowers are relatively easy to handle."

It was only after Canada had gone off that England remembered he hadn't been able to finish telling Canada to use the flower on the _girl_ , not the guy. But in England's defense . . . the nation was on the brink of realizing he'd made an enormous understatement about magical flowers being "relatively easy to handle". Plus, he was going through briefcase withdrawal. Don't put too much pressure on him.

Settling back down next to the bush, he sighed, "Ah, well, I suppose I shouldn't stress too much over what's already been done. After all, how much harm could the lad do?"

. . . Was it already mentioned that England had made an _enormous_ understatement?

"Wait a tic, was that my briefcase he was holding?"

* * *

 **Notes on this Chapter:**

 **Oh, Canada.**

 **Here, France is representing two characters from the play by Shakespeare, by the way. One is the guy playing Pyramus's—**

 **Prussia: "Pyramid's."**

 **—female love interest in the play within the play. The other character France is sort of taking on the roles of is the queen of the fairies.**

 **France: *gestures in England's general direction* "Hey, how come _he_ gets to be a guy?"**

 **England: *gestures at France's costume* "Because _I'm_ not the one wearing a bloody dress, you blasted frog!"**

 **France: "It's staying in character! I'll have you know that _Thisbe_ is a very—"**

 **"Magical flower": In Shakespeare's play, there is a magical flower that acts like a sort of love potion. While writing this chapter, I considered using wine instead—since, well . . . I think a lot of the events in the play that occur while the characters are under the influence of the flower's magic are a lot like, well, if they were under the influence of alcohol—but then I realized that might cause too many complications, so I kind of sort of made England smash a bottle of expensive wine on my behalf.**

 **France: *recoils in horror* "Why would you waste such a fine beverage?"**

 **Me: "But it's alcoholic!"**

 **Canada: "Five. Hundred. Dollars."**

 **France: "I am so sorry."**

 **Me: *sweatdrops* "He'll pay you back . . . possibly?"**

 **Seriously, though, alcohol can be a very dangerous substance so I would suggest going about it with great care and not using it so lightheartedly.**

 **On a different note, if things in this fic exactly mirrored Shakespeare's play, then France and England would be married fairy rulers. Heh, heh. Hmm . . . I wonder if that would've happened if . . . ?**

 **England: *hastily changing the subject* "Well, would you look at the time! Would anyone like to give the outro? Yes? No? Alright, I can do it myself, then! Stay utterly . . . uh . . ."**

 **Prussia: *jumps in* "Stay awesome, everyone! Kesesese!"**


End file.
